Why Me?
by oldmule
Summary: Harry and Ruth are paired together on an operation at the most inappropriate of times. Set mid S9 but with no Vaughan.
1. Chapter 1

**Set mid Series 9**

* * *

"Why me?'

"Because it has to be convincing."

"I'm sure you and … and … and …" Ruth was struggling to think of someone, of anyone, anyone at all.

Lucas patiently sat down beside her.

"Ruth … They're supposed to have been married for fifteen years, that's not something you can just pull off and make convincing."

"And how many legends have you had, Lucas, in the last 15 years?"

"More than you can imagine," he replied quietly.

"So, within that vast array of experience, are you telling me that you couldn't manage this?!"

"No, not in the same way as you and Harry."

She sighed with exasperation.

"You have that …" this time Lucas was the one struggling for words, "… that _thing_ you do."

"What _thing_?" she demanded.

"That unspoken thing. That understanding of knowing someone intimately for years."

Ruth laughed.

"Intimate is so very far from the right word, Lucas."

He studied her for a moment.

"Ruth, I don't begin to understand all that has passed between the two of you, but I do know with upmost certainty that there is no one more suited to this operation."

She was shaking her head.

"Not now. Please don't ask me to do this now, Lucas," she said quietly.

"It won't wait, Ruth."

You have no idea, she thought, no idea at all.

* * *

"Why me?"

Lucas inwardly sighed but forged on, patience somewhat strained.

"Because there's no one as believable as you and Ruth would be."

"You have no idea," Harry muttered, heading towards the decanter and pouring a measure which went well beyond large.

"Now is not the best of times, Lucas."

"But now is the only time we have got. You know that."

And the worst of it was that Harry did. He did know that. He did recognise that there was no one else who best fit the description, no one else available who could fill the roles.

But dear god, did it have to be now!


	2. Chapter 2

"You were married in Paris, in a small church near Monmatre on March 12th.

You were living there having met three months earlier when Helen," Tariq glanced at Ruth, "Started working as a translator for Daniel's company," it was now to Harry that he looked.

"A whirlwind romance with the boss," smiled Beth.

It really didn't help.

Harry and Ruth's attention was focused solely and convincingly on Tariq, appearing totally absorbed in the details of their new legends. But although the information was going in, their thoughts were elsewhere.

They had struggled to be civil to each other for the last fortnight; they had struggled to move on; they had struggled, she to forget his proposal, he to forget her rejection.

And now this.

"No children, you decided your schedules and lifestyle were unsuited. Daniel's market research business has done well, with offices in Paris, Rome and London, you have been frequent visitors to all but have lived in London for the last ten years.

It's been a happy, successful marriage, apart from one shortlived affair three years after you were married, between Helen and a fellow translator in Paris called Georges."

Ruth remained motionless.

Harry remained frozen.

"Helen ended the affair," continued an oblivious Tariq, "and told Daniel the truth. Since then all has been rosy in the Harrison household."

He grinned his lopsided grin.

"All your papers and contact details are here. House and car keys, plus mobiles, tracker and a few other toys that might come in handy."

He pushed a tray across to them,

"It would be a good idea if you worked through the details before you get to the house tomorrow."

"Thank you, Tariq," Harry snapped, "I think we know the drill."

Beth caught Tariq's eye as they filed out of the forgery suite.

Harry and Ruth sat. Silently. In the now empty room.

"I'm sorry that there's no choice in this…" he said finally, "I know it could have been better timed."

Her eyebrows raised but she still said nothing.

"Timing is everything, I know," he said, voice clipped.

He rose from his chair.

"Whether we like it or not, Ruth, we have to do this and we have to do it well. The consequences are too serious for us to fail."

With an almost imperceptible nod of her head, she stood.

"Come round at eight tonight."

Harry hesitated.

"Are we not better doing it here?"

"From tomorrow we're supposed to be living together, Harry."

He nodded.

"I'll be there at eight."


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for the reviews so far, and yes, it's far from a new idea but hopefully it's one that has not been set in this particular time line before.**

* * *

In a world of decision makers and prevaricators, Harry Pearce was a decision maker.

He was the maker of the most difficult of decisions.

A maker of decisions that most people could never imagine, let alone make.

But on this occasion the decision would not come.

After fifteen minutes he finally knocked on the door.

It was eight o'clock.

He proffered the bottle that had been the cause of such quandary.

"I didn't want to appear presumptuous, but it seemed rude to bring nothing."

She nodded.

It was a bottle of white burgundy. The fact was not lost on her.

"Come in," she said.

* * *

She handed him a glass.

"Have you eaten?"

"A sandwich," he answered.

"When?"

"About half two."

She suspected as much.

"I've ordered us a Thai," she said.

She knew him. Better than anyone.

"In the meantime we should get on, Harry."

And so they began. Testing the legend, learning the legend, becoming the legend.

* * *

"Coffee: black," she stated, "Tea: builders with a splash of milk."

He nodded.

"Coffee: rarely," he ventured, "Tea: earl grey or peppermint."

Her turn to nod.

"Drink : single malt, neat and a good glass of wine, over dinner."

He agreed.

"Wine: anything fruity, but not sweet. Occasional gin and tonic or brandy, if the need arises."

She wasn't fully sure how he knew that, but he did.

"Okay, she said, "….breakfast. Cereal, or toast?"

"Toast."

"White, or brown?"

"White."

"Butter or marg?"

"Butter" he admitted.

With…?"

"An egg. And bacon. Possibly black pudding."

"Is there anything at all healthy in your diet, Harry?"

"Porridge" he said, quickly, "…in winter."

She waited for him to continue.

"… With golden syrup."

He looked somewhat abashed.

"I'm amazed you've lasted this long, Harry."

The doorbell saved him. The take away had arrived.

As she served up in the kitchen and he sat waiting, he pondered the scenario. Was this not what he had wanted for so long, the two of them together, out of work, having dinner.

But it was work. She had said 'no'.

It's work, he rammed home, just work, no more, not real, not true, not at all true, just work.

She served up the food about to take it through and she wondered how different it would be if she was serving it up for real, serving him, living with him … sleeping with him.

But it was just work.

And she had said 'no'.


	4. Chapter 4

"Do you snore?" she asked, taking his plate, even though he hadn't quite finished.

"Sometimes. Or so I've been told. Not that I'd really know, Ruth, I'm generally asleep."

She walked to the kitchen.

"Do you?" he called after her.

If there was a reply, he didn't hear it.

"I suppose we'll soon have the chance to find out," he murmured, quietly.

But it did not go unheard.

He glanced at his watch as she returned with a pot of coffee for him and a peppermint tea for her.

"It's getting a little late, Ruth, I should …"

"Who locks up?" she asked.

For a moment Harry was lost in the moment and not the legend, though he recovered himself imperceptibly.

"I do," he said, "as you usually go to bed first ..."

"To read," she offered.

He nodded approvingly.

"And by the time I follow you up you're often asleep with the book resting on your chin."

"It's an old French novel I can never get to the end of."

"Aah, the dreaded chapter 12."

She smiled, "Indeed."

"I take the book without waking you, set it down, open at the aforementioned and inevitably dreaded chapter 12 and then I fall asleep watching you, so that you are always the last thing I will ever see."

She was looking at him intently and he realised that he had gone a little too far.

"What side of the bed?" he asked, casually, trying to move on.

Ruth failed to answer, she was still staring at him.

"Which side do you sleep on?" he repeated, wondering quite where he was in the minefield that their evening had become.

"The middle," her tone was neutral.

"You have to have a side, Ruth."

Still nothing.

"Okay…" he said patiently, "…well, what side did you sleep on with George?"

Her eyes flared, "That has nothing to do with this."

"I need to know a side, Ruth," he snapped, "I'm not saying that I need to occupy it. I'm not saying I'm trying to replace him, I just need to know. To be real, I need to know."

"Right," she said, curtly.

Right, you understand? Or right –"

"I'm on the right."

"Thank you."

There was silence.

It lasted too long.

It was time for him to go.

* * *

She lay in bed, a book in her hand. It was not French but it would do. She wasn't reading it, even though it was open. Her mind was elsewhere.

* * *

He lay in bed, on the left hand side, his face turned to the empty pillow on the right and he tried to imagine a sleeping face beside him.


	5. Chapter 5

**I have absolutely no idea where this is going, or if there's even a plot! Yet we shall plough on, making it up as we go along, buoyed as ever by your enthusiastic reviews.**

* * *

"Happy, Daniel?" asked Lucas.

"I am sufficiently well versed from Uncle Albert to the rebellious Aunt Hilda. For all the good it will do me!" muttered Harry.

"Helen?" Lucas turned to Ruth.

"I still don't see why you think this will work."

Lucas despaired.

"It will work because Coleman will not be able to resist Daniel's deeply buried anarchic beliefs and the possibility that he will have both an ally and bases in Europe from which to spread his brand of sick chaos."

Neither looked convinced anymore.

"Now, don't you think it would be a good idea to stop hanging around the grid and make a start?"

"Yeah, time to get out there, Evershed, and start doing … married things," Dimitri grinned affably.

It was a cold, icy blast that ripped through the air in his direction.

* * *

Harry and Ruth climbed into the Lexus SUV and began the tortuous route to the apartment which had been acquired for Daniel and Helen Harrison.

Their journey was a quiet one.

An uncomfortably quiet one.

"This is it," he said as they finally pulled up before a luxury converted former warehouse, on which no amount of money had been spared.

"Ready?' he asked.

She nodded.

The concierge crossed to them as a valet relieved Harry of the car key and disappeared to the underground car park.

"Welcome back from your trip, Mr Harrison ... Mrs Harrison," said the Concierge, who was clearly one of theirs.

Ruth smiled warmly, "Thank you, John, it's good to be back, isn't it darling?"

Her face was warm and open and loving as she slid her arm around Harry.

"It certainly is," he replied, pulling her closer still.

"I'll have your bags brought up, sir,"

They headed towards the lifts passing through the luxurious lobby and the handful of people who were there.

His arm was still around her waist, hers halfway up his back.

They looked content and relaxed as they stepped into the lift.

"So… did you have an enjoyable trip?" Harry said gently.

Ruth smiled, "You were there weren't you?"

He leant close to her ear, "Oh, yes," he said, in a husky voice just loud enough for the woman who had stepped in after them to hear.

"Then, it will always be enjoyable, Daniel," her eyes were wide and playful and sensual.

For a moment Harry got lost. But merely a moment.

The lift doors opened, the woman got out. Two floors later, at the private entrance to the penthouse suite, Harry unlocked the door and as it closed behind them it left the warmth and the affection with it. The legends fell away as easily as their coats.

* * *

It was an incredible space.

Enormous glass windows out to a terrace and views across the city. The interior was exquisitely designed and decorated: modern, chic and yet comfortable. It was breathtaking.

But it wasn't real.

"Harry," she said, as she read the note she had just discovered on the driftwood coffee table.

"You should stick to Daniel, even in private … it will make for less mistakes." He suggested, in a not unkind way.

"Daniel," she repeated, "you need to see this."

She passed him the note.

_Apartment swept and clean, no scanning or surveillance devices - but be aware, the windows and terrace can be overviewed. _

_Coleman expected any time._

_Report in through John. _

_Beth_

Harry glanced at the ceiling to floor windows.

"Not ideal … but…"

"But what," she asked.

"We'll have to make sure to not betray ourselves."

"Then we'll be careful."

He nodded.

"What next?" she asked.

"A shower and dinner out."

Her eyes flicked to him.

"Coleman could be here, if he is, he needs to see normality, besides which it will give him the chance to make contact."

"Okay," she said, "I'll go and get ready."

As she went she sensually ran her hand across his arm. He knew he was standing close to the windows: he knew that was why.

She walked into the bedroom, trying to appear as though she knew every room intimately, in truth all she knew was the floorplan.

Her colleagues had worked hard at the façade.

Their clothes were arranged in the wardrobes, their belongings sprinkled around. There was a picture of the two of them on the bedside table. It was a good picture, they looked happy … together ... married.

It was beside a big bed.

A big, big bed.

A book lay beside it on the right hand side: Albert Camus, she smiled.

She wondered into the palatial en suite: double sinks, a bath you could drown in and an enormous walk in shower. There were products laid out, hers and his, laid out as though they belonged here and yet none of it was real.

As she ran the inordinately large bath, wondering if it would ever fill before next Tuesday she paced back towards the bedroom and looked once more at the bed.

Their bed.

In front of ceiling to floor windows.

What was wrong with these design types, she pondered?

Had no one heard of bloody curtains.


	6. Chapter 6

"You look beautiful," said Daniel of Helen.

Though in truth it was Harry saying it of Ruth.

She smiled warmly back at him, or at least Helen did.

They were alighting from the taxi, it was pouring down. He held aloft a brolly for her as she got out and then pulled her close beneath it to keep them both dry as they scurried across to the restaurant door.

"Mr and Mrs Harrison," exclaimed the maitre de, seamlessly divesting them of coats and umbrella, "How wonderful to see you back. Please, let me show you through." And so they were escorted to 'their' table, an intimate one in a quiet corner of the restaurant, where they could see the four piece band who were playing but not be disturbed by them.

The maitre de, promised them their usual aperitifs before suggesting that Jonathon, their waiter, to whom they were also seemingly well known would be with them imminently.

"Alright?" he asked of her, as they were finally left alone.

She nodded and slid her hand across the table and over his.

He didn't really want to say anything more, in fact he had nothing to say and so he just gazed at her, a thousand thoughts running through his mind and for once she did not look away.

Jonathon, the fresh faced young waiter, not to mention Five operative seconded from Section C, walked towards the table with their two glasses of sparkling bellinis.

He had not met Sir Harry Pearce, nor Ruth Evershed before but merely knew them by reputation. He certainly admired them. He hoped that as he progressed through the service that one day he would be as good as them and if the need arose and his country depended on it, that he too, could appear to be as convincingly in love as these two veterans before him now.

"Mr and Mrs Harrison, you are most welcome back. Your aperitifs.

He put down the bellinis

Harry Pearce didn't move, he was maintaining the façade, his eyes still fixed on her.

"Thank you, Jonathon," Ruth turned to look at him and he was startled by the sheer blue of her eyes, "How are you?"

"Very well, thank you, madam. May I get you anything else, before I bring the menus?"

And now the legendary Harry Pearce fixed him with a look.

"We'll have what ever Francois recommends, thank you, Jonathon and a bottle of Krug to be going on with."

"Of course, sir," he said, turning away.

"We may have been married for fifteen years but you're still something of an enigma to me," she said, smiling as she held the sparkling peach glass in her hand.

His eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"You insist on Bellinis, and then order a bottle of the best."

He smiled.

"Because it reminds me of Venice and Venice reminds me of you."

"You don't need reminding of me Daniel, I'm right here."

"The café? That hot night, when they opened the concert doors and the music spilled out?" he prompted, knowing she would go with him on his grand tour.

"Puccini," she nodded.

"Puccini."

And in their minds they were both there, in the square beside the canal, drinking bellinis with the gentle music washing over them as the strings soared and the angelic voices drifted from the church.

"It was perfect," she whispered.

"Every single moment of it."

Salute," she said, raising her drink.

"Salute, il mio amore," he said quietly, as their glasses touched.

And something inside her felt the thrill of it.

"Compliments of Francois," Jonathon was back, with the hors d'oeuvres.

There was something in his expression that stopped Harry mid glare at being interrupted. Instead he nodded his thanks and pushed the plate towards Ruth, at the same time retrieving the note hidden beneath.

_Coleman is here. Table in the opposite corner._

Suddenly Venice seemed very far away.


	7. Chapter 7

They were aware of him.

There, across the room, having dinner, with a man neither of them recognised, deeply intent on their discussion and seemingly showing no interest in Helen and Daniel Harrison.

Ruth and Harry continued to play their parts and play them well. But there was a change there now: a job of work that had reminded them of why they were here; that had stopped them losing themselves, albeit even for a moment in the façade.

"Maybe we should get a little closer," suggested Harry, quietly.

Starter, main and a bottle of champagne and white burgundy later and they were still hesitating over a dessert.

He glanced in the direction of the band.

"Would you dance with me, Helen?"

Ruth wasn't entirely convinced but it was certainly the best way to get nearer Coleman's table.

"Of course," she smiled.

A low, sultry saxophone entreated them to the floor and a gentle piano bid them begin.

His hand slipped around Ruth's waist, as she offered up her right hand to him. He took it, slid his own around it and twisted it in towards him, cradling it against his chest in an intimate gesture and then he pulled her close. Her left hand drifted up from arm to shoulder, her face leaning in to his chest.

Their focus was on Coleman. He hadn't looked up, still deep in conversation with his associate. They strained to hear as Harry edged her around to that side of the dancefloor, but the two spoke quietly and the music was too loud in comparison. They tried to read the body language of the pair: it was close, they knew each other well; they were animated; in agreement; passionate about whatever they discussed but yet they were watchful and aware of others around them. Coleman paused as a waiter arrived at the table.

He didn't smell like Harry, it was a different cologne to the one he used. It was a heavier, spicy, more sensual smell: she liked it.

He was warm and strong and present. He held her tenderly and yet powerfully, as though he would shelter her from the storm without ever breaking her. She felt safe.

She felt desired … _and_ she felt desire.

And the power of it surprised her.

This was the closest she had ever physically been to him.

She was soft and smooth and fitted against him, as though she had been created for him and him alone.

And in this one simple moment, the presence of Coleman not withstanding, Harry knew he was in Hell.

And Hell was a desert and he was dying of thirst.

And as he crawled through the heat, his throat burning, there before him was a shaded, sparkling lake and beside it a jug of chilled, iced water to quench him. But as he felt the relief of the shade upon his back and the cold of the glass within his hand, he knew that the lake would disappear, the water evaporate and the mirage, for that was what it was, would surely fade away.

He was in Hell and Hell was all that he had ever wanted, here, wrapped in his arms.

Hell was a taste of all that he needed, all that he craved, all that could ever sustain him.

But it was merely a taste.

And that, for him, was Hell.


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks for your considered and generous reviews - they keep me going when inspiration is lacking! **

* * *

The door of the apartment closed behind them.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"I think he's interested."

"But cautious."

"Certainly cautious," he agreed.

"And now we wait?"

He nodded, "And if we've done enough, he'll call."

They had finally provoked an introduction at the bar of the restaurant, where they had retired to enjoy a brandy and scotch respectively.

Coleman's colleague had left and he was already there drinking bourbon.

Harry had spoken quietly to Ruth, a private conversation that they believed no one could hear, or so it seemed. Harry had talked of the influx of economic migrants, about nationalism. They had complained of the trouble it had brought them across his european offices and the devaluing effects it had had upon their various properties. And they talked briefly of how they wished things could change.

Coleman heard it, as he was meant to. He had to strain but he heard enough. Enough to know that here was someone who had his own sympathies, someone with money, with property, someone who may be of use to him, particularly now.

And so it was Coleman who had instigated the casual introduction, had talked about dinner, the music and other pleasantries until he left twenty minutes later, asking for Daniel's business card before he did.

That's when Harry knew they had him.

"It's late," she said.

"Nightcap?"

"I think I've had more than enough."

He crossed to her from the kitchen where he was about to pour himself a small single malt, she was standing close to the window looking out at the illuminated city.

"He might be watching … somewhere out there," she said quietly.

He slipped his arms around her waist, standing close behind.

"Yes, he might."

He kissed her delicately on the cheek.

"You should go to bed, it's late. I'll be there in a few minutes."

He felt her nod.

"Would you … would you keep the lights off when you come through and then no one can see in as easily."

"Of course…" he smiled gently, so that she could hear it in his voice, "…Besides, I doubt they would want an eyeful of my pyjamas."

Ruth turned to face him.

"I'm not sure they've left you any," she said.

"...Right."

"Night, then," she said, kissing him quickly on the cheek and beating a hasty retreat.

Harry picked up his whiskey and looked out once more.

Ruth couldn't sleep. She lay in the darkness: well, as dark as the city ever got. Her hope had been to be fast asleep before he came to bed. But she was awake...very awake, very aware and also rather wary.

Alongside her was merely an empty bed.

Her head was full of the evening. Full of dancing, dinner and desire.

A relationship with Harry that had ever been cerebral and buried, guarded and unspoken had suddenly become physical and it was on the verge of overwhelming her. When they reverted to their restrained normality, returned to guarded and buried she would relive these moments, they would sustain her, but for now they wound round her head, pulling tighter and tighter.

"Are you alright?" She was stood in the bedroom doorway, peering across the living room at him.

"'I'm fine, Ruth."

She thought about correcting him, as he had done her, but she relished the use of her own name, and as ever the way he said it.

"It's late," she said, quietly.

He glanced at his watch. 3.30am.

He had intended to follow her earlier but it was difficult.

They could have asked anything else of him, however bad, however ugly, however morally debatable.

But to ask him to do this.

To ask him to share the same bed as her, however innocently, was beyond difficult: not because he didn't trust himself, not that.

But because it was all that he had asked from her. And she had said, no.

"It doesn't look right you sitting here," she ventured, "besides, I found pyjamas ... well, the bottoms anyway. I left them in the bathroom for you."

He nodded but failed to speak.

She wondered if this was the last thing he wanted, if all the rest had simply been for show, for the legend.

"I know this isn't easy," she said, reading yet misreading.

He stood up and turned off the small sidelight beside him.

"You're right, Ruth, it's late."

And he followed her towards the bedroom.


	9. Chapter 9

**Short, I'm sorry. Will try and update soonish.**

* * *

He slept intermittently.

So did she.

When he slept, she watched him. Watched his strong shoulders, his furrowed face, his clenched jaw; watched the soft blond hairs on his arm; watched his naked chest rise and fall.

When she slept, he watched her. Watched her face still thoughtful in repose; her brow still knotted as though unpicking problems in her dreams. He did not look at her bare shoulder, nor her slender arm; nor did he notice her warm welcoming, fresh, delicate scent; nor the curl of hair falling across her collar bone; nor the rise and fall of her chest

Both woke tired.

Both woke thoughtful.

Only when she woke, she woke alone.

He was in the kitchen, dressed.

She felt at a disadvantage in a silk dressing gown.

"Morning," he said, stepping forward and kissing her quickly on the cheek.

"I thought I'd do breakfast," she said, "but you've beaten me to it."

"And what would Helen have made us?"

She pondered but only for a moment, "Muesli, yoghurt and fruit."

"Precisely," he smiled, producing a plate of egg, bacon and white toast, "This however will set us up for the day."

He placed the plates on the table, nodding to her to grab the salt and pepper.

"Sleep well? he asked.

"Yes, very well. You?"

"Absolutely," he replied.

And thus their day began: began with a lie. A day built on lies; a lie that became less of a lie and more a beginning.

Though neither knew it.

At least not right now.


	10. Chapter 10

**Apologies for plot heavy updated which is boring even me! **

* * *

"So..." she said, clearing their empty breakfast plates, "... now that we are 'set up for the day', what next?"

"I'd suggest another cup of tea," he said, picking up the tea pot.

"And?"

"And wait."

He poured two more cups.

"We wait for the phone to ring. Wait for contact, whether it be from Coleman, or the grid. And in the meantime..." he carried her cup across to one end of the long sofa, "get comfy, put your feet up and relax."

She looked sceptical as he walked away towards the bedroom.

"Imagine it's a Sunday morning," he called back, returning a moment later and handing her the copy of L'Etranger that had been left on her bedside table.

"And what about you?" she smiled, taking it and finally sitting down.

This time Harry picked up his own cup and the broadsheet that he had discovered earlier outside their door. He plonked himself on the opposite end of the sofa, lifted his legs up and stretched out.

"You'll find me right here, doing likewise," and with that he flicked open the newspaper and disappeared behind it.

An hour and a half later and like two bookends facing one another, their feet almost meeting in the middle: both were asleep.

Him with the paper fallen to the floor beside him; she with her book resting on her chin.

And for once they were domestically in exactly the same space and time.

Both content. Both untroubled.

The telephone rang, loud and sharp. Startled, they woke suddenly. The phone stopped almost at once.

Groggily Harry picked up the paper and Ruth moved the book.

"Perhaps you didn't sleep quite as well as you thought last night," Ruth said.

"Perhaps not," he admitted.

"No..." she said, quietly, "me, neither."

They held their gaze for a long moment and both knew and understood the lie.

The phone rang again. Harry answered. It was Coleman.

"Jason ... Coleman?" Harry sounded unsure.

"Ah, yes, last night, I'm sorry, yes, of course we remember you. How are you Mr Coleman?"

He listened patiently to the answer, his eyes never leaving Ruth, both of them knowing the call was been routed via the grid and the trace was already in place. Ruth checked her watch.

"Indeed I'm always interested in business, Mr ... Jason, yes of course. What kind of business have you in mind, Jason?"

He listened as Coleman skilfully ducked the question and then Ruth saw the smallest of smiles start to form.

"Give me a moment and I'll just check my diary," Harry looked at his mobile just in case any prying eyes were watching through those long, large windows to the outside.

"That should be fine, actually could you do an hour later, then we would both be free? ... Good, good."

Ruth glanced back at her watch: they needed longer, her expression told Harry as much.

"Off James Street? Is that -"

But Coleman was seemingly in a hurry.

"Of course, yes, okay ... See you then."

The call was ended.

Ruth's mobile buzzed with a message.

"Not long enough," she read, "...no trace."

Harry sat down, his back to the windows.

"When?" she asked eagerly.

"Tomorrow at three."


	11. Chapter 11

"So ... Sunday lunch?" he asked.

"It's Wednesday."

"It's lunchtime ... and the day has many Sunday type qualities."

"It's not even three hours since breakfast."

"Precisely. An age. An eon. An entire morning. Not to mention that we have from now, until three o' clock tomorrow and my culinary skills have already reached their limit. We have to eat."

"Just not all the time," she muttered.

He handed her a small folded piece of paper. It was a leaflet for a political rally, though political was stretching it somewhat.

"John, our concierge, thought we might be interested."

"National Truth," she read and suddenly his desire to go out made more sense than just food.

"Lunch and a walk in the park then," she said.

"Exactly my thoughts," he nodded, "with a realistic sprinkle of fascist insurrection along the way."

"Perfect."

A warm spring day filled with cherry blossom and fresh life and in its midst a cold, sharp blast of insular, nationalistic, hate: all wrapped up as politics.

For them it was repugnant, for Daniel and Helen it was 'refreshing'.

They stood on the edges of the rally hearing opinions that on face value could have sounded reasonable, but which in truth smacked of man's inhumanity to man. They listened intently and revealed little of their sympathies: unless you were truly watching and then you would have recognised the subtle signs of support and agreement.

"Do you think he's here?" Ruth asked quietly.

"Without doubt."

She briefly applauded the latest speaker, seemingly caught off guard in a moment of enthusiasm. Harry slid his right arm around his waist.

"Lunch?"

"Lunch," she nodded.

They sat outside on the terrace of a small restaurant, opposite the park and felt the warmth of the sun upon their faces.

Ruth, menu in hand, was looking out thoughtfully, she caught his eye, his question unspoken.

"I was wondering if he might make contact before tomorrow?" she answered.

"I suspect not, but he'll be watchful. Now choose." He said, poking his menu at her.

She smiled, "a caprese salad."

"And...?"

"Just that."

Slightly unconvinced by her reticence, he gazed back at the menu thoughtfully. The waitress arrived.

"A caprese, the duck liver parfait and the monkfish, please," Ruth said, confidently, glancing at Harry for approval. He merely handed his menu back to the waitress with a smile, "and a bottle of chablis, please."

The waitress, turned away.

"I see after fifteen years, Helen, that I have become predictable in my choice of lunch," he said, a twinkle in his eye.

"Just testing that I've still got it, Daniel."

"Oh, you've still got it," and he smiled a warm smile that for her outshone the spring sunshine.

There was something about John, the concierge, when they returned home. Ruth couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she sensed his unease even before he had time to recognise it himself. She said nothing, it was merely a feeling.

Harry was unlocking the penthouse door when his phone flashed. He stepped aside for Ruth to enter, as he began to read the message.

_Apartment compromised..._

Ruth felt the hand on her arm, felt herself turned, saw him loom towards her, pushed back, arms surrounding her, hands spread against her, lips pressed against hers.

Harry's lips locked against hers.


	12. Chapter 12

**Shortish update to keep you going in case I don't get another chance to update over the weekend **

* * *

His lips slid from mouth to ear. "Say nothing," he whispered before kissing her neck repeatedly.

They were in the middle of the large open penthouse flat, the windows to their left. He lifted his head to look at her with a smouldering expression and yet it had not reached his eyes.

"Shall we take this to the shower?" he asked huskily.

She smiled and pulled him in for another kiss. Together without releasing each other they moved across to the bedroom, kiss still intact: only there did Harry pull away, taking her hand and leading her into the bathroom.

He turned on the shower.

And then everything stopped.

"The apartment is compromised," said Harry, reaching for his phone to show her the message, "There are cameras in the living room and kitchen area."

"And the bedroom?" Ruth asked cautiously.

"No, but of course there are still the windows."

She nodded.

He hesitated before glancing down at her, "I'm sorry ... about ... that" he nodded back towards the other room, "I just didn't know how else to stop you from saying anything."

"There are worse ways of being made to shut up," her mouth said, before she'd had chance to engaged her brain.

"You know like being ... gagged or ..." Her mouth continued blathering until it was firmly told to desist.

They stared at each other for several moments, not really knowing what else to say. Which was fortunate.

It was Harry who spoke first.

"We better get a shower."

Ruth's mouth hung open once more, but this time no single word issued forth.

"Considering what we are meant to be doing," he hesitated, "... It may look strange otherwise."

"Okay," she managed.

"You go first, I'll ... " and he pointed over to the bath at the opposite end of the room, "I'll wait over there."

She nodded dumbly, grabbed what she assessed the largest possible towel and stepped into the enormous walk in shower that was most fortunately shielded from the rest of the room.

A string of clothes began to be thrown onto the floor.

An arm snaked out, dropping a skirt; a hand let fall a blouse; fingers released underwear.

Perched on the edge of the bath, Harry valiantly attempted to think about something else.

But then came the lace bra.

It fell onto the tiles.

Harry quickly reevaluated his idea of hell.

Dante had been right: there was more than one level.


	13. Chapter 13

In the last 24 hours there had been several firsts but watching a dripping Ruth step from the shower, a large towel wrapped around her and rivulets of water weaving their way down her neck and collar bone, disappearing between her cleavage: that was a first that pushed him rather too close to the edge.

"Your turn," she said, as they walked past each other, exchanging places, each more physically aware of the other than they had ever, ever been.

Harry began to unbutton his shirt.

Ruth perched on the bath, watching him surreptitiously.

"What next?" she asked, unexpectedly.

He was tempted to say 'my trousers' but fortunately did not.

"I mean, how does this play out, Harry?"

Shirt gone, belt unbuckled.

"We have a quiet evening in, watch a film, go to bed and at 3pm tomorrow go and meet Coleman."

He folded his trousers, laying them on the side.

"And...we satisfy his reason for installing the cameras," he stepped into the shower.

A distracted Ruth was trying hard to concentrate on just what that reason was, when Harry's trunks were thrown onto the floor.

"Okay," was all she lamely managed to say.

It was a cold shower. A very cold shower. Bracing was not the word.

There was only one problem.

"Ruth, could you pass me a towel?"

An arm snaked round the corner, blindly offering one up.

"Thanks."

He wrapped it snugly around his waist. It appeared they only had one large towel and this was not it..

He stepped out and walked towards her. It had to be said that the remaining towels on the rail all looked bigger

"Well, we're convincingly wet enough," said Ruth, wondering just where to cast her eyes, finally choosing to concentrate on a drop of water that was weaving its way through the minefield of scars across his chest.

"There's champagne in the fridge, we could open that?" he suggested.

"Not champagne," he said almost immediately, answering his own question, knowing well that look of hers.

"Tea..." she said, "I just fancy a cup of tea."

"Then tea it is."

**Torturous, I know, but that's just the way they are! I promise not to drag this out too much longer! **


	14. Chapter 14

They had started the day on the sofa and so there it would be, that they finished it.

But first came tea.

They pottered around still clad in only their towels.

She was the first to mention the rally in the park, as the kettle clicked off.

His tone was somewhat derogatory, suggesting that what was needed was more than fist pumping, chest thumping neanderthals; that what was truly needed to restore the balance was something well beyond their meagre imaginations. But he did not venture what.

As he filled the teapot she ran her hand lightly across his back.

"It needs more than balance," she said, as he turned towards her, "so this..." her finger tips traced the scars across his chest, "can never be allowed to happen again."

Harry watched her fingers, before looking into those bright blue eyes, marvelling at the sharpness of her mind to link Daniel's source of hatred, to his own physical proof of former hurt.

She was good. But he knew that.

He slid his arms around her and held her close, wondering just where the camera was.

"You're cold," he whispered, "shall I get you your dressing gown?"

He felt her nod into his chest before he let her go.

He reappeared wearing likewise and as he slid the soft material around her shoulders he lifted her wet hair so as not to get it trapped He handed her a small dry towel, as she handed him the damp one which she had deftly slipped off.

He looked at it, "I thought we had a shortage of these larger ones," he said, catching her eye, "but it actually seems like there are several."

"That's good" she replied, straight faced, turning back to pour the tea.

They relaxed, they chatted, they ate toast. It was like a Sunday morning but on a Wednesday evening. It felt good.

"Do you have to go into the office, tomorrow?" she asked, as they washed up.

"Possibly in the morning, I'll give them a call, depends what is happening in Rome."

"Do you think it will have passed?"

"Hopefully, for the moment, but who knows what bloody rubbish they'll come up with next."

"Could probably do with a few of those chest thumping neanderthals over there", she smiled.

"I told you Helen, it needs more than that," he complained.

"So we may have a free day?" she asked, knowing the answer.

"Mainly, though we have that meeting with Mr ..." he hesitated.

"...Coleman," she prompted, "oh, yes."

"Mid afternoon."

"What's it about?"

"Not sure, he was rather cagey."

"What did you make of him, Daniel?"

He pondered.

"I don't know. I have the feeling he has an agenda, but for what, I have absolutely no idea."

"Maybe he wants to sell you life insurance?" she smiled.

"Or make a claim against an accident at work."

"Don't be silly," she said, throwing the tea towel towards him, "it's bound to be a PPI claim."

Coleman done, they relaxed a little more and eventually settled onto the sofa to watch a film.

Harry couldn't remember the last time he had sat and watched a whole film, let alone done so with someone else.

He sat at one end and held out his arm, she took up the prompt and sat, her back leaning against him, head propped against his chest, her legs stretched out before her.

He passed over the small brandy he had poured for her, contemplated the fact that she was naked beneath the dressing gown and then quickly started the movie.

He didn't need to get carried away with that particular thought.

And so for nearly two hours they got lost, absorbed, transported.

They were two people being entertained, sitting comfortably with no pressure to be elsewhere and no thought of anything else. His left arm was around her waist, her right resting upon his knee. They were content.

As the music surged and the credits rolled she turned her head back to him.

"That was good," she smiled, her face open, eyes wide.

"It was," he nodded.

Her eyes were so very blue.

His gaze was so very intense.

She was only inches away.

And so he did the most natural thing in the world.

He kissed her.

Harry kissed Ruth, Daniel kissed Helen: where one ended and the other began was indistinguishable.

Whether it were real, or faked; intended or accidental: no one knew.

Even them.

Especially them.


	15. Chapter 15

When they went to bed, they went to bed together.

Harry put on his pyjama bottoms and climbed beneath the duvet. Ruth slipped on her nightdress in the bathroom and as she padded back around to her side of the bed, she caught his eye, nodding for him to turn off the sidelight and give them what extra privacy from the windows was possible.

They lay in the city's electric half light on either side of the enormous bed, finally free from cameras.

And where the night before they had been tense, vigilant and unable to sleep; this night they felt comfortable, relaxed and at ease.

He turned onto his right side.

She turned onto her left.

There was a vast expanse of sheet between them, but they had never been closer.

They looked at each other without pretence until they fell asleep.

It was seven minutes past three. The cafe door opened. It was not Coleman.

Ruth sipped at her tea.

By half past they were certain he was not coming.

Thirty seconds later the door opened once more and Harry saw the flicker of recognition pass across Ruth's face before he turned to greet Jason Coleman.

"Hello, Harry."

It was Lucas.

He sat down beside them.

"Coleman's dead. Hit by a drunk driver as we tailed him here."

They stared at him in blank surprise.

"The explosives?" asked Harry.

"Recovered and we've got three of his associates. Dimitri's in pursuit of the last."

Again there was a long pause.

"Bit of an anticlimax, I know," Lucas said finally, "still, at least we can get back to normal, now."

Harry was quiet. Ruth was quiet.

"That is unless you've got too attached to all that luxury?" grinned Lucas, getting up.

"It is a beautiful apartment," Ruth replied quietly as Harry passed her her coat.

Neither felt relief, neither felt joy, neither felt happy, as they turned to follow Lucas back to the grid.

The debrief was exactly that - brief. No one could remember a threat so simply dissipated. It crossed all their minds how much easier such a course of action would make their jobs.

The team were aware that the friction between Harry and Ruth that had been there a few days earlier appeared to have gone, they were relieved, though the quietness that had replaced it was making them a little wary.

Meeting over and a myriad of new threats on the horizon, they all returned to their desks.

Apart from two.

"A fair outcome." he suggested.

"No one hurt," she replied.

"Apart from Coleman," he said, straight faced.

"Apart from Coleman," she lied.

For the briefest of moments they did not look away and then as one, they both rose and went in their separate directions.

Ruth went home alone. She ate alone. She sat in front of the television alone and when she went to bed it was alone.

She had never felt so totally and utterly alone.

She felt lost.

She felt bereft.

She had been given a gift and then had it rescinded. She had been shown a life and had it removed. She had tasted from the cool waters of the oasis in the desert and then watched whilst it evaporated before her.

Anticlimax was not the word.

Harry knew hell would feel like this.

Hell was the unreality of hope.

Hell was her and the lack of her.

Hell was the empty side of the bed that he was looking at.

**Sorry, promise it will be resolved in the remaining chapter or two**!


	16. Chapter 16

"Lucas said you wanted me."

She leant in beside him, proffering a cup of coffee, "No doubt your last one went cold."

It had gone cold and yes, he did want her, wanted nothing else but her; not that he had said as such to Lucas, in fact he had said nothing at all to Lucas.

"Thank you," he took the mug.

She looked out at the city and wondered just how many times they had both stood here not saying the things that really mattered.

"So was there something?" she asked.

"No, not really, I just came up for some fresh air."

"Oh."

She stood, not wanting to move.

And so she did not move, she stayed.

"I miss Daniel," she said quietly.

Unreadable, he continued to gaze out at the skyline.

"What, missed his hidden fascist tendencies?"

She laughed, shaking her head, "No, perhaps not those."

"Maybe his questionable morals, then?"

"Those neither, I think.."

"Ah, it must be the money, then Ruth: the penthouse and the fridge full of Krug?"

"Well…." she hesitated, playfully.

"And there we have it," he said with a small smile.

"No, you're right," she said conclusively, "I realise that I don't miss him at all."

She let the moment pass. But not the opportunity.

"It's you that I miss, Harry."

He did not move.

"And this…" she said, her hand sliding across the back of his, caressing his knuckles which were tightly gripping the bar before him as though he feared he might be about to plummet.

Very slowly he turned and dared to look at her.

"... I've missed ... _this_," she said as they stared at each other, unblinking: so much unspoken.

"I can't…." he shook his head, tormented: his need to say so much, tearing at him.

"... I can't 'date' you, Ruth," he said, quietly, "I can't have dinner with you, or go out occasionally… I can't do it by half. Not any more.

"I can only do everything ... it has to be everything. All the time. It has to be ... _we_ have to be every morning, every night, every week, every year. It has to be all and permanent, for as long as we have left.

"It has to be that, Ruth. Do you understand? I can't do part time and I can't pretend, not any more, not with you.

"I can't pretend with you."

He finally stopped, both for breath and to give her opportunity to speak, but when she tried, he stopped her.

"Please don't tell me now. Please think about it. So that when you say it, whatever you say, it truly is your decision. Not one to be taken back, not one to be rescinded, but an honest and a permanent decision. Do you understand, Ruth?" he asked her once more.

She nodded her head, not wanting to take her eyes from his impassioned, honest, open face.

He twisted her hand in his and raised it to his lips, kissing it gently, knowing that all his hopes lay in that small, delicate hand.

And then he walked away.

They had finally, finally managed to say something that mattered.


	17. Chapter 17

**Not sure how I feel about this**?

* * *

It was ironic that the occasion he had given her space to think, was the time she needed none.

How very them.

For three days they said nothing about _that_ conversation, although it was in their thoughts every moment.

On the fourth day she asked him to meet her at lunchtime.

"Hi."

"Hi."

She pushed a glass of scotch across the table towards him.

He contemplated if that was a bad sign.

"I know you've got the JIC this afternoon, so I've already ordered for you," she said simply.

He smiled and sat down. It was a nice pub, a mix or modern and vintage on Paternoster Square.

"So, what do I fancy, Ruth?" he said, thinking that perhaps he would try and keep this light before it possibly took a turn for the worst.

She didn't bite.

"Wild boar sausages and mash."

He nodded.

"Good choice?" She asked.

"A very good choice."

He rolled the whiskey around the glass for several moments.

"Ruth..." he began, having abandoned keeping it light, "...have you..."

"Please Harry, could we just enjoy lunch first?"

This time he rolled the whiskey down his throat.

The food was good, the company was good, the anticipation was painful but he resolved to at least try and enjoy the moment with her. It had felt like forever since they had last had the opportunity to openly gaze at each other: be it across a table, a sofa, a bed.

When the bill arrived she paid it quickly insisting it was her treat and hurriedly reached for her jacket.

"Ruth..." he prompted once more, still in desperate need of her answer.

"I just need to show you something," she said.

Unwillingly he walked out into the spring sunshine and through the hoards of tourists who were spilling out across the pavements.

"Come on, Harry," she said pulling at his arm.

"It's really not the time for sightseeing, Ruth."

But he was been dragged across the road and up the stairs.

"I've got the JIC meeting to get to and ..."

Why the hell he was here he had no idea; even less so when she scooted past a _Closed to the Public_ sign, ushering him downstairs.

Finally the cool, closeted air greeted them; silence and stillness surrounded them; and they were free from pilgrims, tourists and sightseers. He stopped her.

"Ruth, what are we ...?"

"Nearly there..have faith."

And they were on the move again. Faith was something in which he was sadly lacking. Faith in anything.

And now she stopped them

St Faith's Chapel.

In the Crypt of St Paul's.

"Marry me, Harry. Marry me, right here, right now."

He stared at her.

"You wanted permanent. You wanted 'as long as we both have left'," she said, "This is that."

"Now?" was all he could manage.

"Yes, now," she nodded across to where a priest smiled patiently, alongside two of the cathedral staff.

"Here?"

"It's your right as a knight of the realm to be married here."

He was still just staring at her, at the dream.

"Is it too soon?" and her tone was filled with anxiety now, worried they had got it wrong yet again. That she had got it wrong.

"I just thought when you said you wanted..."

"No. No," he shook his head, "now is good, Ruth. Now is just perfect."

"Are you sure?"

"Are you?"

Neither answered the other, so he kissed her.

"Let's just stop talking," he whispered, "before we balls this up."

And so in a private chapel, of a hushed crypt, within a national monument: two people unknown to the country they served stood in front of a priest; and amongst their silent witnesses, in the shadows behind them lay Nelson, Wellington and Christopher Wren.

And for once, they both knew that they had got it right.

**Feels like a good place to end, though I would like to tie up the odd loose end so there may be one more**.


	18. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

No one did marriage like them.

No one else, having just been married, would fifteen minutes later be sitting in a meeting. No one else would have found themselves married without ever having said _I love you_. No one else would now be married, yet have no idea where they lived. And very few would find themselves married after only three kisses, the most passionate of which was fake.

But that was them.

Harry sat in the JIC meeting. Beneath the table his thumb and index finger slowly revolved the white gold ring on his left hand.

"I don't know what's so bloody funny, Harry," snapped the Head of Five.

"Every single security suggestion you make," replied Harry, curtly. Yet the remnants of the smile had not left the edge of his lips and it had certainly not left his eyes.

"Ruth?" Ruth wasn't quite listening. She was wondering where they might live.

Tariq gave up. She was clearly distracted today.

The pod doors slid open. Harry strode onto the grid, towards his office ... whistling. It did not go unnoticed.

"Where shall we live?" Ruth said, closing his door behind her and sitting in the chair opposite.

"Erm…"

"Mine's a two bedroom flat," she stated, raising her eyebrows questioningly.

"Three bedroom house," said Harry.

"Yours, then," she concluded.

He nodded.

"My things?" she asked.

"We'll get them on the way home tonight."

"I've got rather a lot of books."

He smiled.

"We'll get the basics tonight and then we can do the rest, including your wing of the British Library when we have time."

"Very funny," she smiled, heading back to the door.

"Harry?"

"Yes, Ruth."

"Does your bedroom have curtains?"

"No, it doesn't."

She looked somewhat put out. She'd had enough of large glass windows. Resigned, she slid the door open.

"…But _our_ bedroom does."

It was a long walk from Harry's office to Ruth's desk. Every step of it she smiled.

It was earlier than normal when he turned off his computer. But there were things to be done. Besides which, on this particular night and every other night come to that, he had someone to go home with.

"Oh no you don't," said Lucas standing up as Harry walked across the grid. Ruth was also on her feet, reaching for her jacket.

"If you two think you can moon about all afternoon with your new shiny rings and not even stand us a bottle of champagne, you've got another thing coming."

Harry and Ruth looked caught. Everyone else was trying not to smile.

"_'__Moon about'_?" quoted Harry, disparagingly.

"Like teenagers," Dimitri laughed.

Ruth stepped close to Harry, nudging him with a smile, "Teenagers who've had a hard paper round, perhaps."

"So…?" Tariq prompted.

"Champagne?" asked Beth.

"How about Krug?" Ruth, chipped in.

"I think you'll find that's in the price range of your previous husband, Ruth."

"Never cared for him anyway," she beamed.

He looked around the rest of them.

"Moet …" offered Harry, "… The George?"

And The George it was.

"Someone to see you," Lucas nodded back towards the pub door as he wrestled with the cork of yet another bottle of champagne.

"Malcolm!" Ruth threw her arms around him.

Harry offered his hand.

"About time too," smiled Malcolm.

"Here, you deserve one of these," Lucas thrusted an overflowing glass at his former colleague.

"_He_ deserves one?" queried Harry.

Malcolm simply smiled.

"Thought you might like to meet a friend of mine,' he said, taking a sip from the spilling glass, "I believe you've already met."

Harry saw Ruth's face fall first, within seconds his mirrored it. "Coleman," breathed Ruth.

"Paul Connolly, actually," said Coleman, holding out his hand.

Lucas turned, shook the hand that was offered to Harry and passed over yet another glass of Moet to Coleman/Connelly.

"Let's face it," he said to Harry, glancing at Ruth too, "we couldn't take anymore of your snapping and sniping at each other."

"The only way was to lock you in together and get you to play nice," Malcolm relished another mouthful of fizz, "Needs must, Harry."

"The cameras," whispered, Ruth, her head assessing the numerous unfortunate scenarios that could have been seen by her colleagues.

"No cameras, Evershed," Dimitri chipped in, "Don't worry, we have no idea what you got up to, but whatever it was, it worked."

Harry had been very quiet. Unusually quiet. All eyes looked to him now, fearful of the repercussions.

"You spent departmental resources on a non imperative operation?" he accused Lucas.

"I'd argue it was imperative."

"So would I," said Ruth, gently taking Harry's hand.

"Not to mention about six years late," added Malcolm.

"We rented the penthouse for free," Tariq offered.

Lucas grimaced slightly, "Well… borrowed it."

"I don't want to know," snapped Harry.

He turned to the former Mr Coleman and held out his hand.

"Thank you, Mr Connolly."

And then his attention moved to the rest.

"Malcolm, it you weren't retired I'd fire you. Lucas, you're buying for the rest of the night. And Dimitri, I think you'll find that it's not Evershed anymore. Now if you'll excuse us, we have a few things to sort out, not to mention some curtains to enjoy."

With that he grabbed Ruth's hand and winking he turned away.

Her clothes were in the wardrobe, her toiletries in the bathroom, her jacket on the coat rack and her shoes by the door. There was an old French novel by the right hand side of the bed.

Her side.

They sat on the sofa with a cup of tea. It was late.

It was time for bed but neither dare say it.

"Ruth…" he whispered, his head behind her as she leaned against his chest.

"Mmm," she murmured.

"Thank you … for this."

"You're happy, aren't you?"

"I've only been married for nine hours, Ruth, it would be a bit poor if I weren't."

She laughed, throwing her head back and purposefully hitting him in the chest.

"Yes," he said, "I am happy, Ruth. More than happy."

"Me too," she yawned.

"You're tired."

She nodded her head.

"Time to sleep," he prompted, moving his hands from around her waist.

She grabbed his left hand and turned to face him.

"I'm tired," she said, "but not _that_ tired."

He smiled and kissed her.

"Then let's to bed."


End file.
